


The Idle Rich: Rats in a Maze

by KayJ



Category: The Following
Genre: F/M, Gen, Investigation, Spoilers, Trapped, Whump, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8262568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayJ/pseuds/KayJ
Summary: During an investigation, Mike and Max end up prisoners of a sadistic new group of baddies, with one familiar face. How season 4 could have started, but with lots of whump, a haunted house vibe, and some Maxton feels. Completed Story.(spoilers for the end of season 3)   That unsettled feeling in her stomach seemed to get worse with every room. “I don’t want to know. Mike, I have a bad feeling about this place.”He nodded. “Me too. I feel like we’re…”“Rats in a maze?” Max volunteered, and he nodded again. “Someone is leading us somewhere. For all we know they’re watching us too.”
  -------------------------------------------





	1. Where Do We Go from Here?

 

 

“Are you alright?”

This probably wasn’t the first time Max had asked that question. She watched Mike from the passenger seat with cautious eyes; a familiar look for her recently. He kept his hands on the steering wheel, clenching slightly to feel the shape of the leather under his fingers, and breathed deeply.

“I’m fine. What brought that up?” He aimed for nonchalance, but missed.

She shrugged. “Well, there’s the fact that you haven’t spoken since we exited the interstate ten miles back. Or the fact that I turned off the radio and you didn’t notice. Or there’s —“

“Ok, ok,” Mike ghosted a grin. “I surrender. I was daydreaming.”

“Well, this is our turn. So maybe it’s time to pay attention.” She pointed to a driveway on the right, marked on either side by well-tended shrubs and a low brick fence but curiously, no gate. “The house should be half a mile back, just on the rise.”

Mike eyed the terrain. Nothing unusual here - wide lawn, scattered oaks, an empty paddock more for show than horses. He felt curiously at home back in Virginia, though the thought of those long tense days in Richmond still unsettled him. These low rolling hills, just beginning to turn orange and red with the first hints of autumn, were preferable to the unpredictable coldness of upstate New York. Any place that could take down Ryan Hardy wasn’t high on his list of vacation spots. But thinking of Ryan was dangerous. Those thoughts threatened to open that gaping hole in his chest again, that dark place where madness and unpredictability lived. Another deep breath, and a glance at Max - God, she was gorgeous - in the passenger seat, and Mike felt his heartbeat slow.

“According to her normal routine, Zhanna should be home now. Her standing appointment with her physical trainer ended three hours ago, and she doesn’t have anything on her schedule until tonight, according to her office.”

Mike made a face. “And we trust them why, again?”

“Because according to our cover we’re only here to get her side of that nasty deportation case involving her business partner’s housekeeper. A few quick questions and we’re out. If we happen to mention Vadim Leskov it would be entirely by accident.”

And if Zhanna would talk, it could blow their case on Leskov wide open. The Russian supermodel had been on the outs with him since a fight outside a D.C. nightclub a few weeks ago, helpfully chronicled on a politico gossip blog. Leskov, as a newly arrived, young, handsome, and unattached member of the Russian consulate, was a favorite topic of discussion among the D.C. elite and the gossip machine. And if it could be proven that he’d played a part in three ritualistic killings hushed up around the beltway, well, that would be a shocker.

“I still can’t believe we can’t arrest him,” Mike grumbled. It was the hundredth time he’d brought it up. He was convinced that if Ryan was still with them, he would have been repeating it just as often. Today, the role of Ryan Hardy would be played by Mike Weston. Poorly.

“He’s got diplomatic immunity, Mike. Unless we had video of the murders - solid proof - the FBI would rather push him out than make a scene. A little pressure in the right spot, and Russia will recall him.”

“It’s not enough. It’s never enough, Max. All these psychos, out there…” He thought of a particular psycho, in a particular parking garage in Manhattan. He remembered the look of horror in Max’s eyes.

“Mike,” she put a hand on his knee and squeezed. The familiar gesture twisted his heart at the same time as it warmed him. “We’re here, ok. Table it.”

She shut him up without comforting him. This felt as familiar as her hand had. He pulled the car around the circular drive and turned off the engine. They were here alright. It was a white two story manor house like so many in this part of the country, with two wings that fell back from the front porch, where tall columns framed an etched glass door.

His shoulder gave a twinge as he climbed out of the car into the cold air; he grimaced past it.“Hey, Max?” She turned back, waiting. “Maybe tonight, after this, we grab a pizza, spend the night in?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.” That noncommittal word, tossed out casually, reignited the worry he’d felt for months now. But this wasn’t the time.

Max found the doorbell and they waited for someone navigate the massive home and greet them. When the door finally opened, it was to reveal an older woman, generously plump, wearing a flour-smeared yellow apron over a black blouse and skirt. Her grey hair was pulled tight into a bun, the severity of which matched the look on her face.

“Yes? Can I help you?” She asked, in accented English.

Mike held up his badge, Max followed suit next to him. “Federal agents, here to ask Ms. Zhanna Ludikova a few questions about Sergei Vilano’s current legal troubles.”

“Come in, come in. We heard you might arrive.” She ushered them inside, to stand awkwardly in a large bright entry hall. A wide staircase curved around the room, a hallway directly ahead led into the house, a chandelier hung overhead. All these old houses were the same. The housekeeper gestured for them to follow as she shuffled down the hallway. She opened the first door on the right, then stepped aside to allow them to enter. Mike wrinkled his nose at the furnishings - this was an antique sitting room, used for receiving guests a hundred years ago. Pretty much everything in this room, from the claw-footed burgundy couch to the gilded low lamps on the marble-topped end tables, was easily older than his great-grandfather.

“We’ll be meeting with Ms. Ludikova?” Max prompted.

“The path to Ms. Ludikova begins here, yes.” The old woman nodded at them, distracted, and pulled the door shut. A click echoed throughout the room; Mike and Max glanced at each other.

“Did she…?” Mike asked.

But Max was ahead of him. “That bitch locked us in!” She moved to the door and gave the handle a jostle. That and a shoulder to the door barely nudged the thick slab of wood.

“There’s nothing in Zhanna’s file to make us suspect her. Were we wrong?” Mike’s hand strayed to his gun as he surveyed the small room. “Or is this some weird Russian form of hospitality?”

“Something’s wrong here.” Max moved to the one window in the room and tried it. “Dammit. Painted shut.”

“Wait, I think I’ve got something.” Mike had his gun out now - he always felt safer with his gun out - and was exploring the northern wall. “This panel is different from the others, see?” He ran a hand along the wood paneling, the middle portion a shade lighter than the panels around it, then jumped back as it swung inward. A gust of cool air blew into the sitting room from the narrow dimly lit hallway revealed behind the panel.

“A secret passageway?” Max edged up beside him, holding her gun in both hands.

“Maybe? But that opened on its own. I didn’t trip anything.”

“It’s better than hanging out here. Let’s go.” Max eased into the hallway slowly, gun ahead of her.

Mike spared one last look for the empty sitting room, then followed.

 

*** 

 

Max crept down the hallway, gun raised. She hadn’t wanted to go first, but letting Mike do it was an even worse option. That was how people died. The hallway was narrow - so narrow that the bare concrete walls were inches from either shoulder. Light bulbs, bare and buzzing, were screwed into ceiling sockets at regular intervals. It felt like a utility hallway, more at place in a power plant than a mansion. Behind them the door snicked shut.

“Anything?” Mike called out behind her.

“Nothing. But I think I see a staircase ahead.”

“You know, I could lead.”

“That’s right, you could.” Max pasted on a smile she didn’t feel. “Going down, look alive.”

They edged down the staircase slowly, one step at a time. The metal steps bridged the gap between the narrow walls, with open space underneath. At the bottom the walls opened up into a small barren room the size of one of the storage rooms back at the Bureau. A metal door at the far end was the only interesting thing about it.

“What the hell is this place?” Max wondered out loud. “Why have utility access tunnels behind your Downtown Abby sitting room?”

Mike shrugged, carefully examining every inch of the small room they were in. “Beats me. But I’d be lying if I said this didn’t make me suspicious.”

The harsh sound of metal on metal jerked their attentions, and their guns, to the far door. “What was that?” Max whispered.

“Let’s find out.” They advanced on the door slowly, guns up.

Max thought she saw the edge of the door move ever so slightly; she opened her mouth to point it out and that was when all hell broke loose.

A simultaneous cacophony of klaxons blared into the small room, so loud that Max winced and cried out at the pressure on her eardrums. The room went dark. Lightning-fast strobe lights, bright and urgent, flashed from the ceiling. “Mike!” She yelled into the noise, but if he answered she couldn’t hear it. It seemed an effort to raise her gun in front of her. The incessant flashing lights illuminated Mike for an instant, gasping for breath and doubled over against the noise. Dark shapes materialized between strobe blinks, leaping across the room in steps made giant by the blackness between lights. Before she could react a force slammed into her outstretched arms and she dropped her gun. Her fingers closed on nothing as pain radiated up her arms.

As quickly as it had begun, it ended. The sudden absence of deafening klaxons hurt her ears nearly as much as the alarms themselves had, and trying to blink away the afterimages of the lights only made her dizzy. Shock coursed through her. How had she lost her gun? That’s basic training, and all it took was a little confusion for her to forget it.

Mike was pressing the palms of his hands into his sockets. “What the fuck was that?” He moaned the words out.

“Your gun?” She asked even as she looked for it.

“Gone. There were people in here. One of them kicked it from my hands. I couldn’t hold on to it, couldn’t recover it after. Where’d they go?” He raised bleary eyes to the spartan metal room around them. Max wanted to hug him for the look on his face, but held herself back. She dug for her cellphone and pulled it out, frowning at the ‘No Service’ message. Mike did the same, with the same reaction.

“I saw the door move before the alarms started,” Max remembered. “Must have slipped in while we were disoriented. So someone wanted us unarmed, and laid an elaborate trap to make that happen?”

“There’s no reason for this room to have those alarms and lights built in. So someone installed them. Just for us?”

“Not enough time from when we got to the house. And even if the call to Zhanna’s office had tipped her off, why not just refuse entry, or give us false information to lead us away. Why all this?”

“Max.”

“What?”

Mike straightened as a grave look settled onto his face. “What if they want to toy with us?”

She took a step forward. “What?”

“They want something from us. They could have killed us just now but didn’t, and they could have thrown us off their trail and they didn’t.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Max eyed the door in front of them. Solid metal, pale grey, nothing remarkable. “But, there’s only one way to find out what they want.”

“This time I’m going first.” Mike stepped in front of her and pulled the door open cautiously. After a beat he gestured her through and they stepped into a room that bore a striking resemblance to the one they just left, save for a white metal ladder at the far end instead of a door.

“Tiles,” she murmured, glancing down. At Mike’s questioning gaze, she clarified. “The floor in here is tiled, but back there it was poured concrete.”

He nodded. “So we go up?”

“We go up.”

They crossed the room carefully, hands held cautiously at their sides. Max’s fingers itched for a gun to hold, anything to defend herself with. A sinking feeling in her stomach grew deeper with every step. Mike reached the ladder before her and reached for the closest rung easily, then jerked his hands back with a hiss. “Shit! It’s electric!”

“What?” Max looked from him, shaking his hands out with a wince, to the ladder. The metal rungs were evenly spaced every six inches or so; far more rungs than a ladder required. “Are you ok?”

“It was small jolt, nothing harmful.” Mike shook his hand. “But what the hell. Does someone want to keep us from climbing?”

“Where else would we go?” Max looked around the small room again, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. The ceiling looked to be unbroken concrete - no loose acoustic tiles to lift.

Mike darted out a hand and touched the next rung quickly before withdrawing his fingers. He reached for it again and held the metal full with both hands. “This one’s fine.”

“And the next?” Max knew the answer even before Mike snatched his hand away.

“It’s live.”

“So we climb. Carefully?” Max met his blue eyes, showing him she wasn’t afraid. That was partially true, at least. Mike refused to let her go first. Instead he climbed slowly and painfully, carefully calling out which rungs were electrified and which were fine so that she could follow his path once he reached the top. Thankfully the rubber on their shoes shielded their feet from any of the electricity; it was just their hands they needed to worry about. Mike insisted he was fine, up until the second-to-last rung, the one that would have propelled him to the top. Max heard a sizzle and screamed as he jerked on the ladder, arching first back then forwards before losing his grip and falling to the ground. It was a ten foot drop; the landing didn’t look easy.

“Mike!” She dropped to her knees beside him, her hand on his chest. His heart was beating quickly, she could feel it through the fabric of his dark blue shirt. He gaped, eyes wide, before catching his breath with a gasp. His cheek when she touched it was clammy. “God, Mike - are you ok?”

He nodded faintly, and she hugged him as best she could. She couldn’t let him know how terrifying that moment was, how fragile he looked. She kissed him hard, grateful for the pressure on her lips that told her he kissed back.

He pulled back, and she let him. “I’m fine,” he coughed. “Just gotta avoid that rung, that’s all. No big deal.”

She mock hit him in the chest. “Don’t make light of this, Weston. You scared the shit out of me.”

“I did a pretty good dive though, didn’t I?” He smiled, and she hit him again before helping him up. “I’m first this time, and no arguments.” She held up a hand as he opened his mouth to do so. “I counted, I remember which to use. Besides, this way if I fall you can catch me.” She reached for the first clean rung and gripped it easily. _Deep breath, you can do this._ Remembering the pattern, she skipped the next three rungs and reached for the fourth, which was clean.

“Be careful,” Mike murmured below her.

“Yeah yeah. I got this.” With a careful motion she bypassed the dangerous rung second to the top and stretched her fingers to graze the one just above it. No electric shock met her fingers, and with a heave she pulled herself clear of the ladder to the top. Breathing heavily, she glanced around her new surroundings. Another hallway, narrow and metal, with no one in sight.

“Coming through,” called Mike, as he reached over the dangerous rung to pull himself clear. He sat opposite her, their legs both dangling into the room below. “I’ve had enough fun for the day. What do you think is next?”

Max shook her head. That unsettled feeling in her stomach seemed to get worse with every room. “I don’t want to know. Mike, I have a bad feeling about this place.”

He nodded. “Me too. I feel like we’re…”

“Rats in a maze?” Max volunteered, and he nodded again.

“Someone is leading us somewhere. For all we know they’re watching us too.”

Max shuddered. If someone was watching, then they could likely hear everything the two of them said. Had they said anything private, anything to give away the case? She cast her thoughts back. No, probably not. “Who would do all this?”

Mike let out a sigh. “You ever hear of the idle rich?”

She let out a bitter laugh, then realized he was serious. “What, like Lily Gray?” Mike’s face closed up at the name, and Max could have kicked herself.

“It’s a theory a lot of the guys in the FBI have, that there’s a subset of the ultra wealthy who use their money to skirt the law. Killings, torture, weird sex stuff. Whenever a case comes up that looks too clean, someone will bring that rumor up. All the money in the world can cover a psycho’s tracks pretty well, you know?”

“It could also buy a lot of retrofitting…” Max looked around again, at the clean metal hallway tucked into this old Virginia manor home. If they were being hunted by these people, if Zhanna and Vadim were part of it, then they were in big trouble. No one knew they were here, their cell phones didn’t work, and their guns were gone. Across from her Mike gave her an unreadable stare. She turned away from him. That was not what she needed right now - to be reminded of how much she loved him. Attachments means mistakes, and mistakes meant death. And she couldn’t bear to lose Mike.

 

*** 

 

Max seemed to be taking this pretty well, Mike thought as they walked.

He took another deep breath through his nose, trying to calm his racing heart. His palms were sweaty. Fuck this, and fuck these people. He’d been helpless before, toyed with before, and those nightmares were enough for one lifetime. If this truly was what he thought it was, if they were rats in a maze, then things were about to get a lot worse. He could handle it - would have to handle it, for Max’s sake.

The hallway they walked through was as narrow and impersonal as the first hallway they’d entered. From the time they’d left the ladder to now, they’d twisted and turned along with the hallway, following some unknown path. Max thought the hallway must wind between the rooms of the old house, which wasn’t a bad idea. Even so, they’d been walking for some time, and as big as the house was it wasn’t massive - eventually they’d run out of house.

“I wish we had a clear view ahead,” Max complained as they carefully ducked around a right turn in the hallway, and Mike grunted agreement. Neither of them wanted to drop their guard and risk running into assailants by taking the corners blindly. Of course without weapons, blundering into someone felt pretty much the same as sitting in one place and waiting for someone to come and find them. “Do you feel like we’re in a horror movie?”

Mike smiled despite himself. “Kind of. It’s not a great feeling.”

“But you love horror movies.”

“Different when you’re in one. How are you doing?”

Max shrugged.

“Wanna use your words?”

“Not really.” She sighed at his look. They cautiously rounded another bend. “Look, I’ve got this sinking feeling in my stomach. Whatever’s going on here, it’s more than we bargained for and we’re helpless to do anything about it.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“That wasn’t what I —“

“Yes it was.” Mike bumped his shoulder into hers, trying to make it a playful gesture. “ _We’ll_ be fine.”

Max was silent. Mike knew that look, had become intimately familiar with it. That was the ‘everyone I love dies” look. He’d seen it on Ryan, and now Max had inherited it along with her uncle’s death. “Max?”Before she could argue he drew her into a hug. He rested his chin on her head and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the smell of her, feeling her warm solidness in his arms as she held him back. “I love you,” he whispered.

“Love you too,” she answered, and for a moment it felt like they could keep the darkness at bay.

A clattering behind them pulled them from the reverie.

“Someone’s coming.” Mike glanced behind them, but couldn’t see more than twenty feet down the hallway.

“Or they’re prodding us forward because we stopped.”

“Or that.”

They picked up the pace and pushed onward, but there wasn’t much farther to go. After an oddly sharp turn in the hallway ahead, they found themselves staring at an old fashioned elevator, complete with a bronze grill door and a lever to open it. Where the bronzed metalwork on the side of the door met the sterile stainless steel of the hallways they stood in, soldering marks showed jagged and grey against the smoothness.

“Do we…?” Max gestured to it.

“Either that or we turn around and see what made that noise. Could be nothing.” But, he refrained from adding, this seemed to be the only way forward. The ceilings and walls of the hallway were solid, no way in or out. They could walk all the way back to the electrified ladder, or push on. Mike pulled the elevator door open with a jerking motion and the clatter of old metal echoed down the hallway. He took a step inside and gave Max the all clear. It was a small elevator - most old ones were - with a wood paneled floor and black and white striped wallpaper. There were only two buttons, “1” and “2.”

Max pulled the door shut and turned to face him. “Ready. Let’s see where this leads.”

Taking a guess, he pressed “1.” A clunk sounded, deep within the walls of the elevator, like old gears turning reluctantly.

And then the floor dropped out from under them. 


	2. No Choice But Onward

One moment, Mike was standing next to Max on solid ground, waiting for the elevator to move. And the next, they were the ones that were moving. A rush of choking vertigo hit as his stomach rushed into his throat. Max screamed as they fell. It was a straight drop down the elevator shaft. They kept falling, with nothing to hold onto and no end in sight. With the whoosh of new air and the sudden onset of new echoes, they landed in shockingly cold water.

He went down deep. Water invaded his mouth, his nose, weighted him down. Immediately his right side cramped from the temperature change, and he found he couldn’t strain enough with his right arm to swim for the surface above. He flailed like a drowning man - he _was_ a drowning man. He reached out with his left arm and scooped at the water, striving for buoyancy with only half his body working. His lungs screamed and his back felt like it was on fire as the barely healed scar tissue constricted with the cold. With a hacking, choking gasp he broke through the surface, breathing chill stale air gratefully. Max sputtered not too far away, her harsh gasps echoing in this cavernous room.

“Mike,” she called, but the only response he could muster was a groan. She swam for him with easy powerful strokes, circling one arm around his back to help hold him above water. “Your back?”

“Seized up. Hurts like hell,” he managed.

They swam for the edge of the pool. Cobalt blue ceramic tile decorated the hands breath above the water line, and a slippery tile lip protruded over the edge. Max reached to pull herself up first; a good idea, as Mike didn’t think he could raise his right arm high enough to touch the lip, let alone find the strength to pull himself out. Max heaved and pulled herself to sit on the pool’s edge, and Mike saw only too late the movement behind her.

“Max, watch out!”

A masked man dressed all in black pulled Max up by the arms and flung her to the side, advancing on her where she lay sprawled on the wet tile. Mike reached for the edge of the pool, fear making his movements hectic and imprecise. But it didn’t matter - another man reached for him, yanking him from the water by the back of his jacket. Mike scrabbled up with him to ease the pressure on his back, and tried to gain his feet in time. He turned, ready with a closed fist to meet his attacker head on, but the man aimed a blow straight at his midsection and connected solidly. The air whooshed from Mike’s lungs and he fell coughing to the floor. The tiled floor, ivory and inlaid with multicolored mosaic motifs, was slippery with pool water. He stood and lost his footing almost immediately but as luck would have it he slipped in time to avoid a punch to the jaw. From the ground he kicked at his assailant’s legs and succeeded in toppling the man. Mike jumped onto his chest and held him down long to land two punches to the man’s face. Unreadable dark eyes stared back at him from his black knit ski mask.

A strangled cry from Max drew Mike’s attention away. Before he could climb up to help fight off her assailant, the guy he’d knocked down turned the tables, and Mike found himself flat on his back on the wet tile. A blow to his jaw dazed him only momentarily, then the man pulled him by his jacket again and flung him back to the tile several feet ahead. Mike hit the ground with a jarring thud, and tasted blood in his mouth. He spat, hot anger flowing through him. He jumped up with a roar, holding his fists up in front of him, ready for whatever the man would throw at him. He wasn’t ready for the long hunting knife the man pulled from a sheath at his waist. A flash of a nightmare, and Mike saw that same knife in the hands of another man who meant to kill him, felt the hot pain of it sliding into his stomach. He knew he was too dazed to win this fight, not with a knife involved. He backed away, hating his retreat. The man advanced but didn’t attack further. Why didn’t he attack? Mike lunged for him and the man swiped wide with the blade. He fell back to his slow retreat, eyes on the man’s movements for a show of weakness.

“Mike!” Max called out low, and Mike spun to face her. She was backing away with him; her attacker also had a long dangerous blade held before him. “Mike, they’re herding us. Look!” She feinted to the side and one of the men lunged for her with the knife. As she stepped back into line with Mike the man retreated to his cautious stance, knife up.

Mike took a step in front of her, shielding her from the oncoming men with his body while he analyzed the situation. They were in a tiled pool room with a cavernous ceiling, the kind common in the 1920s in New England homes. Art Deco scrollwork covered the walls, several massive bronze planters held thick ferns. Behind the oncoming men, on the opposite side of the room, an open door beckoned. He turned to look beyond Max and saw a large double-door, ornate and metal.

Max spoke in a low, quick tone. “If we keep heading for the door behind us, they won’t attack us. It’s a way out, at least.”

“A way out to where? I’m not playing into their hands,” Mike snarled, and reached for her hand. “Come on!”

With Max by his side they darted past their attackers, heading for the small open door instead. Their movement caught the men off guard, and that head start was enough to ensure Mike reached the open door before they could. As soon as Max was through he slammed the door shut and braced it with his shoulder while Max found the deadbolt and turned it. A few half-hearted thuds faded away as the men on the other side ceased their assault.

 

***

 

Everything about this room was wrong. Max spun slowly, taking it all in. It was a nursery, decorated like something out of a nightmare; white walls with black moulding along the paneling, with occasional splashes of bright crimson in the decor. A porcelain clown doll perched on a shelf, dressed in a black and white fool’s motley, grinning a wicked red grin. Next to it an open black music box played a soft discordant melody, but where a plastic ballerina should have spun, a small clothespin doll bobbled instead. Strands of black thread simulated hair, and a rough slash over the mouth gave the impression of a mustache. Over a white cast iron crib in the corner hung a giant oil painting of a raven, its greedy black eye staring down to where a red pillow in the shape of an anatomical heart lay in the center of the crib.

A bookcase in the corner held a collection of books, ornately bound and out of place in a nursery. Max realized what they were and grimaced. “It’s Poe. They’re playing with us.” She pointed at the painting, “This was set up for us, to elicit a reaction. Why?”

“They knew we’d choose this door. So much for not playing along,” Mike gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Why bring up Poe again? That’s over, Carroll is dead.”

“More followers?”

“Can’t be. Not with these kind of resources. Anyone with this much money is a leader, not a follower - they use their influence to control others”

“So why Poe?”

“Because it means something to us.”

Max was quiet for a moment. “It meant something to Ryan.”

“Do you think…?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time a psychopath became obsessed with another wacko’s arresting officer.”

“If it is Ryan, if whoever set this up is reminding us of our connection to him, then do you think the crib is significant?” Mike didn’t say the words aloud, but he didn’t need to. Max had heard from Gwen just that morning after another checkup went well. The baby was due next month.

Max shook her head. “It’s just a creepy room.” Mike shot her a look, but Max pointed to her ears and then the walls. He nodded understanding - someone could be listening. Gwen’s baby was a closely guarded secret, best not to blurt it out in this crazy maze.

“Let’s table the Ryan thing for a moment, then. Who’s doing this, and what’s their end game for us? Psychopath, wealthy, probably one of the idle rich, circled but never caught by the bureau. What’s through the next door, metaphorically?”

Max glanced around, frowning. “There is no door here, is there? Well, they’ve been toying with us since the beginning. Someone’s getting entertainment from this, but soon they’ll want more. We’ve already seen from the attackers by the pool that no one is trying to actively kill us. That’s likely because whoever set this up wants their own shot.”

Mike picked up where she left off. “They’re not afraid to get their hands dirty, which could go either way - cold and calculating with no chance of escape, or impetuous blaze of glory, which gives us a slight chance of making it out of here.”

“Either way, not hopeful.”

“Nope,” Mike shook his head. “What if we just… refuse? I’m getting sick of the rat in a maze routine.”

“Agreed. But what are our choices? We can’t go back the way we came, and there’s no obvious way out of here. We either sit down and starve to death, or we take the next clue they give us.”

A slight whoosh heralded the opening of a panel on the far side of the room.

“So they are listening,” Max murmured. Cold air wafted into the nursery, but the goosebumps on her arms were there for an entirely different reason.

“Do we go?”

“It’s the only play we have.”

Max followed Mike to the gap in the wall. Both moved cautiously, aware of the utter unknown that lay before them. The room beyond was dark, so dark that Max could barely make out the huddled shapes of furniture in the foreground, lit only by the cast light from the nursery.

“I can’t see anything,” Mike murmured, standing in the doorway.

Max reached around him to feel for a light switch. “Eww…” she said involuntarily as she felt something cold and sticky on the wall. She pulled her hand back into the light and felt her heart beat a little faster. Blood, congealed and dark, covered her fingertips and palm like a child’s mockery of finger paint.

“They’re upping their game, showing us they mean business.” Mike said.

Max had no reply to that. She wiped her hand on her jeans, still cold from the pool, and kept silent. The realization that their captors knew Ryan still reverberated in her mind. Why bring up Poe - why make it personal? If the goal was to unsettle her it hadn’t worked; instead Max just felt the same thing she’d felt for months - grief. Thinking about her uncle brought up painful memories, still tender from years ago when her father died. She glanced at Mike, noted the set of his jaw, the determined look in his blue eyes as he swept the room before them for hints. First her father, then Ryan. If something happened to Mike…

He took a step into the room, seemingly satisfied that nothing threatening awaited them in the immediate space before the door. After a moment, Max followed.

The moment she passed through the opening in the wall, the panel fell closed again with a wooden thud, plunging them into total and complete darkness.

“Max?”

“Here!”

“Grab my hand.”

“Got it.”

It felt good to hold Mike’s hand; to remember that she wasn’t alone.

“Think they’ll turn on the lights anytime soon?”

She jumped as a barely audible click sounded.

“Hello, agents.” The voice was feminine, low, with very measured tones. A slight hissing told her the voice was being piped in through a speaker system. “Welcome. We are so pleased you could join us for the party this evening. You truly have made the perfect show for us.” With each word she spoke, a slight accent revealed itself.

Max spoke up. “Zhanna, why do this? We were more than willing to meet earlier today.” The woman was silent.

“Why are you doing this?” Mike called out.

“Yes, Agents, you have questions.” Zhanna sounded as if she steadied herself. So they’d guessed, and she was flustered. “We will not be forthcoming with answers. Think of it as another part of the puzzle for you to solve.”

“Do we get a prize if we guess right?” Mike asked.

“Try, and find out.”

Mike lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned close to Max. She felt his breath on her ear. “We should split up and examine the room while she’s talking. See if there are any weapons.”

Max squeezed his hand once in confirmation. They separated, Max heading to where the wall on her right should be, with Mike likely taking the left.

“You are so resourceful,” Zhanna cooed, sounding pleased with herself. “I wonder what you’ll find?”

There was nothing on the wall but drying blood, so Max took her fingers from its surface. Reaching out in front of her she felt something hard and wooden, coming up to her waist. “I’ve got a table here,” She whispered to Mike. “And cloth, and…”

“Max?”

She pulled her hands away from the gruesome discovery. “Dead body. Cold.”

“You see, you aren’t the only guests who received invitations for the party tonight,” Zhanna said.

“Do our invitations actually get us in the door,” Max asked bitterly. “Or do we end up cut off by the bouncer?”

“Oh yes. I’m counting on it.”

“Max,” Mike called. “Found a chair, someone’s posed in it. Feels like a woman, also cold.”

“Any guesses now, agents?”

“You’ve heard everything we’ve said since we entered this trap,” Mike replied. “You already know what we’re thinking.”

“The idle rich, using their money to toy with those less fortunate? That’s an easy guess. Who are we, really?”

Max shook her head, forgetting for a moment that in the blackness of the room no one could see her. “Does it matter? You’re a nut job with money trying to kill us. Only thing that separates you from the nut jobs we usually deal with is a couple of commas in your net worth.”

Zhanna’s voice grew steely. “I think you’ll find we’re very different from your average killers, Ms. Hardy. To mention us in the same breath sullies our names.”

“Of course you’re different,” Mike said. “You’re unique and amazing - the second coming of Jesus. Your ego is bigger than this house. But you’re still a psychopath, lady, just like all the others. And the world will see you the same way as them, unless you do something to prove them different.”

Max realized what he was doing and joined in. “That’s the problem with doing all this in secret. How will anyone know how clever you are unless you show them? That’s the only way to truly create a name for yourself. Joe Carroll knew that, Lily Grey knew that. You better have a plan, or you’ll just fade into obscurity.” While she spoke, her fingers found a low couch, thankfully free of any corpses, and a recessed bookcase.

Zhanna was silent for a time. They’d hit a nerve; exactly their point. Without warning, bright overhead fluorescents flicked to life - completely out of place in the vintage-styled parlor room they found themselves in. Max blinked against the sudden brightness, and the image in front of her - a claw-footed armchair against an olive green wall - superimposed itself on her retina.

“You’re not suitably attired for the occasion,” Zhanna said flatly. “You’ll find we provided clothing for you. Change your clothes, and I let you out.”

Max located the clothing, laid out thoughtfully on the low couch she’d stumbled over a moment ago. A beaded silver sheath dress lay next to a full black tuxedo with ivory shirt. Matching shoes rested on the floor below the respective outfits.

“You have two minutes,” she added.

“Till what?” Max asked, but the woman was silent.

“No belt or tie,” Mike observed, rifling through the tuxedo quickly.

“And those are low heels.” Mat suppressed a laugh. On a normal day, given the probable ordeal in front of them, she’d never wish for stilettos. But a four inch heel sticking out of someone’s neck would be a great weapon. So there was nothing here to use as a weapon. These idle rich were thorough. “I’d rather take our chances on the other side than through here.”

“So we do it?” Mike looked pained. “I’m just… I’m really sick of being backed into a corner here.”

“I know.” If they got through this, Mike was going to have even more issues than he already did. Max reached for the beaded dress and quickly unzipped it before beginning to remove her wet and cold clothing.The quicker she could move from one set of clothing to the other, the less time the wackos on the other side of these video cameras could stare at her naked. Next to her Mike had the same idea - he’d prepped the tuxedo before beginning to remove his own clothing. He grimaced as he pulled his wet blue shirt over his head. Max could see the raised skin on his back, hard angry lines that showed where he’d nearly died.

Having finally stripped down, Max pulled on the dress as quickly as she could and immediately began to shiver. The sleeveless dress offered little warmth; the thin fabric barely reached her knees. “Damn, it’s cold in here.”

“You want my jacket?” Mike picked it up from the back of the couch. He’d already replaced his wet jeans and shirt with their black and white counterparts.

Max shook her head. “I have a feeling we need to play by the rules right now.”

Mike tossed her the low heels, then sat down to pull on his shoes. “What could go wrong, right?”

Max slipped into her shoes. “When do you think they’ll —“ She stopped abruptly as the room plunged back into darkness. A prolonged hissing came from overhead.“What is that?”

“I’m — damn. Drugs…” Mike’s words grew more slurred with each word. Max felt her eyes burn as a choking thickness lodged in her throat. She wanted to think of a way out of this - anything to help - but her brain seemed to be moving more and more slowly. In the instant before her consciousness dimmed she heard Mike crumple to the floor beside her. And then nothing.


	3. The End is the Beginning

It was the pain that woke him. The familiar dull throbbing in his back had erupted into a constant scream of fire. Before he even opened his eyes - always assess the situation first - he’d realized he was standing upright and that his right arm was suspended above his head, cuffed to something. The tension in the rope above him was tight; he could barely keep his balance on the balls of his feet. His left arm hung free, and his feet were unbound. The strain on his right arm traveled to his shoulder and then to his back, awakening the tight skin and cramped muscles there.

Mike opened his eyes, groaning at the glittering brightness before him. His mouth was dry and his head ached. The fog that had settled over his mind seemed to be lifting, though. He felt more and more like himself.

He was imprisoned at the edge of a large ballroom, opulently decorated. Chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting light down on a polished wood floor and warm mahogany brown walls, hung with oil paintings in ornate frames. On the far side of the long room, an entire orchestra played on a raised dias. Before them, swirling across the floor in dances or standing in small conversational groups, were men and women dressed in tuxedos and expensive gowns, all wearing filigreed half-masks covering their eyes. Mike did a quick count - fifty people, more or less, enjoying a party in this secret ballroom. Were they all members of the idle rich, all killing with impunity and using their wealth to cover it up? Or were some of them brought here unknowing, lambs for the eventual slaughter?

Along the long wall to his right, he counted ten metal cages, about ten feet high, which seemed to contain drugged or unresponsive people. Those, then, were the lambs for the slaughter.

There were no windows here - they were still underground, which likely meant he and Max hadn’t been taken very far. He was no closer to figuring out where they could be. The ground around the mansion must be catacombed with secret passage ways and ballrooms, but how could such a large-scale construction project go unseen by neighbors?

And where was Max? He couldn’t see the occupants of the cages clearly, but he hoped to God she wasn’t in one of them. He glanced up - a thick rope was tied to a ring on the leather cuff around his wrist. The rope ran to the ceiling, where it snaked through a hanging ring then ran down to the wall, where it was tied off on what looked like a brass boat cleat. He yanked downward with his right arm and succeeded only in hurting his shoulder more; there was no give in that rope.

“Max!” He yelled, not caring what happened after. “Max, where are you!” A few of the partygoers glanced his way briefly before returning to their conversations. He wasn’t the only one yelling. Feeble cries came from the cages along the wall, faintly audible over the jaunty orchestral music filling the ballroom. “Zhanna Ludikova? Vadim Leskov?” He kept yelling, trying to catch the eyes of the wealthy crowd before him. “Who’s in charge? Come over here and face me! Are you afraid to show yourselves?”

It finally worked. A small group of partygoers detached from the swirling crowd in the center of the room and made their way over to him, sipping champagne from crystal flutes and laughing among themselves. The men wore tuxedos and masks, while the three woman in the group, similarly masked, wore floor length gowns that trailed impracticably behind them. Before any of them spoke, Mike knew which of the women was Zhanna - she was a supermodel, after all, and even in a sea of beauty she stood out like a gleaming star.

“Agent Weston,” Zhanna purred, looking him over appraisingly. Gleaming blond hair pillowed over her shoulders, softening her hard cheekbones and glinting blue eyes. “We are so pleased to have you as our guest tonight.”

“Where’s Max?” Mike gritted his teeth through the words. He was all too familiar with feeling helpless in front of a sadistic monster. It was a fear - sometimes an anger - that kept him up some nights.

“We enjoyed your trip through the maze, though I was sad to see you eluded my associates by the pool so quickly. Sometimes a little bloodshed is exactly what a girl wants.” As she spoke, she ran her finger along the rim of her champagne flute. A shiver ran up Mike’s spine at the faint whistling sound.“That was quite a fall you took from the ladder, though.

“We expected more,” one of the men said bluntly. His Russian accent was thick; this was Leskov then, his blue eyes distinctive even under the mask. Zhanna smacked him lightly on the shoulder; a rebuke. “No, I’m right in this, _lyubovnik_.  We promised too much. We must deliver on those promises. Tonight must be a show.”

Zhanna smiled at Mike, ignoring her lover’s words. “Vadim is just angry we don’t get to play with you yet. I have a lot planned for later, so do not worry. We like to keep it spicy.”

“Where’s Max? If you’ve hurt her —“

Leskov shrugged. “You must find her, to discover what we’ve done. Now listen well,” and here Vadim leaned closer, so that Mike could have almost landed a kick, if he’d had any strength left in his right arm to swing out on the weight of that arm alone. “Kill anyone, and Max dies. Try to escape without her, and Max dies. And this is my favorite part: any harm inflicted on others will be visited on you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Put on a good show,” Zhanna offered him. Throughout this odd encounter her eyes had seemed to be focused somewhere around his nose, but now he realized it was his mouth she couldn’t take her eyes off of. He ran his tongue over his lips self-consciously, aware of Zhanna’s growing smile. “You will, won’t you? You will be good?”

Mike’s head ached - he was still trying to shake off the aftereffects of the sedative they’d given him. “I don’t understand.”

The group stepped back from him. Leskov pulled a silver object from the inside pocket of his tuxedo and held it aimed at Mike. Was that a cattle prod? Another man stepped forward and, after handing his champagne to a woman beside him, reached for a long pole leaning against the wall behind Mike. There was a small blade on the end of the pole, like a gardening implement. He used it to slice the rope holding Mike’s right arm up above his head. With the tension gone, Mike nearly fell to the ground in relief. A spreading warm feeling ran through his arm and down his back, heaven to the cramped muscles. He straightened, aware of the entire group’s attention focused on him. While Mike untied the rope from his wrist, the group backed way from him. Zhanna faded into the crowd without a second look back. Leskov frowned at Mike. “Remember the rules.” And then he was gone.

Soon Mike was left alone at this end of the ballroom. The others danced and chatted as before, apparently not at all concerned that he was free.

“What the hell?” he muttered to himself, rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand. A few steps towards the cages on the right and no one rushed to stop him, so he moved closer. The first cage held a woman - a dead woman, pale and waxy, dried blood on her stained white nightdress - tied to a small trapeze as though she was sitting with her legs dangling off. Mike made a face and moved on to the next. Here a corpse, male this time, lay on an obviously fake log with his hands and arms pinned into place above and behind him. _Like a lizard, sunning itself._ Mike glanced back to the horrific sight of the woman on her trapeze. _She’s a bird, in a birdcage._ The other cages were the same; all contained corpses stained with blood, all posed into some type of animal pose.

“It’s a zoo,” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t eaten in hours, but felt like throwing up all the same. 

He forced himself to the other side of the room, finding a posed posed like a lion standing over a kill, and a woman held in the air with wires, arms outstretched as if in flight. But no Max.

That left the crowd as an option. He eyed the swirling mass of wealthy socialites, but couldn’t find a break in the pattern, either a huddled body on the floor or a thick cluster of people who might be guarding her. But as he watched, men from the crowd, men who’d just been dancing moments ago, turned to face him. Hands reached into pockets and under their tuxedo coats, and then suddenly they had weapons. Not guns or knives, but long lengths of pipe or wood, and in one case an honest to god mace. Who the hell brings a mace to a ball? The same type of people who’d keep a zoo of corpses for their amusement.

He didn’t realize he was backing away until his back was nearly to the wall, cages on either side. He’d be trapped if he stayed here. So he darted away from the wall, juking left toward the stage at the last moment.

A hand reached for his shoulder, spun him around. This man’s lips were pressed tight together, not smiling as he brought a thick wooden club down to clip Mike in the shoulder. He gasped and ducked away from the searing pain. Instincts took over and he ducked low to trip the man, who fell with a grunt. A second later a metal pipe wielded like a golf club knocked Mike across the shins and he fell hard, rolling and clutching at his legs. _Dammit!_ Anything he did to them, they’d do back. But how to find Max, through all of this?

He staggered to his feet and ran for the crowd, ducking and dodging the dancers. His legs were on fire and his shoulder ached. “Max!” He yelled her name, and several of the dancers laughed at him, mocking him with cries of “Max! Max!”

“Fuck you!” he screamed, and threw his good shoulder into one of the men mocking him. It was a mistake. The crowd coalesced, him at the center, with hands reaching for him, shoulders and elbows hitting him. Several women gleefully kept shouting Max’s name while the men they’d been dancing with grabbed his arms and spun him around to face the man with the mace. He raised it up into the air; Mike watched with blood in his mouth as the spiked metal caught the light of the chandelier above. _No!_ He wrenched himself free from the men holding him, and pushed through the crowd to the other side.

There was no time to catch his breath. Instead he ran for the orchestra’s stage, taking the four steps up to the dias clumsily. He hunched, panting, and scanned the players. There were at least twenty people on this stage, playing real instruments. How much money did they make at these events, to keep quiet and not tell anyone what they saw? These were some sick fucks.

He ran around the orchestra, scanning the edges, glancing at the solid walls on either side of the stage to see if any doors were hidden there. And then a glimpse, just a sliver of familiar brown hair, caught his eye.

“Max!” He exhaled her name, no longer yelling. There she was, at the harp. Tied to the harp. His stomach dropped and he rushed to her. “Max! Max, talk to me!”

She sat on a low stool, with her hands tied to the harp’s frame so that from a distance she’d look like she was playing. Clear tape across her mouth told him why she didn’t answer, but her eyes, tear streaked, pleaded with him. “No, no, no…” He was spouting gibberish, knew his words didn’t make sense. But he needed to talk to her, she needed to hear him. The tape across her mouth was tight, he had to dig at a corner to gain purchase, apologizing the whole time. When he pulled the tape off she screamed and he felt like dying. He made short work of the ropes binding her to the harp, then pulled her close.

They rocked together, and he reveled in the feel of her body against his.

 

**

 

Max was sobbing, and she hated sobbing. But getting tied to a fucking musical instrument and watching your boyfriend get beat with sticks seemed like an ok excuse for a cry. She reached her hands up, squeezed Mike’s shoulders, felt his legs where he crouched next to her. He was real. He was fine now.

He touched her hair, pulling it away from her tear-stained face, and she wanted to kiss him for that tenderness. But there were people watching, and —

“Mike,” she coughed out his name. “The dancers have stopped.”

He turned to look, and stilled his motions. They were on display. “Yeah.”

A bright spotlight flicked, on pointed right at them. Max blinked away from the sudden light, holding her hand up to shield her eyes.

Before them the dancers all faced the stage, watching silently through their delicate masks. The sound of one lone person clapping, harsh smacking echoes, filled the ballroom. “Excellent,” Zhanna stepped forward, beautiful mouth wide in a perfectly white supermodel smile. “Reunited at last. Make a speech! After all, we threw this party just for you.”

“No you didn’t,” Max said, testing her theory at last. “This is all a show for someone else, isn’t it?”

“Sorry darling, I can’t hear you. There’s a microphone up at the front of the stage, see?” Zhanna gestured. “This is your time to shine.”

“Fat chance,” Max muttered. “Psycho bitch.”

Mike stood up instead, eyeing the microphone.

“Mike,” Max hissed at him. “Why?”

“Time to break up this party.” He walked towards the microphone stand, one arm across his stomach, fist clenched. Max stood up as well, leaning on the heavy harp frame for support.

“You’re throwing this party to impress someone else - that’s clear from your insistence that tonight be special.” Mike said into the microphone, meeting Zhanna’s eyes across the ballroom. “But who? We came to investigate you and Vadim, but you’re just cogs in a machine. If you know us, you know we’re damn good at what we do. So we’re gonna figure it out, you have my word.No one here will be safe from prosecution, diplomatic immunity or not.”

The supermodel laughed, and Vadim chuckled as well as he placed his arm around her shoulders. “You’ll never be as good as Ryan Hardy is,” he said. “You’re just pathetic imitations. He’s the real deal, as you Americans say.”

Max’s fingers clenched against the harp. _Is? Doesn’t he know Ryan’s dead? Unless…_ She had a hunch. Max moved to the microphone and turned it to face her. “Ryan’s the real prize, isn’t he? I mean, you captured the two of us but if we’re as pathetic as you say we are, that’s hardly an accomplishment. We both know he’s still alive,” those words caught in her throat and she pushed past them. “And if you haven’t found him yet, you’ll never find him. Without our help.”

Mike leaned close to whisper, voice shaking. “What are you doing?”

She shook her head. _Stop it, Mike._ Ryan wasn’t alive - he couldn’t be, after that fall from the bridge, the funeral, the mourning - but if these people bought her words long enough to let them go, the gamble would be worth it. They’d be dead too as long as they stayed in this macabre ballroom.

Vadim and Zhanna didn’t move, or betray any hint of feeling about her words. But a woman in a simple beaded black gown glided forward from the crowd, and the crowd gave away around her. She was petite, dark haired, and pretty in an entirely different way than Zhanna. Muscular men kept pace on either side of her. Bodyguards, Max realized. She was the one Zhanna and Vadim had thrown the party for. They wanted to impress her. But why?

“You say that you can find him. How?” Her voice was small but authoritative, laced with the hint of an accent Max couldn’t place.

Thoughts raced through her head. So it wasn’t just Vadim who believed him to be alive. “We can contact him. We have a way.”

The woman’s face settled into a stony pout. “But you do not know where he is?”

“That’s not what she said,” Mike snarled, facing the woman and not the microphone.

“In the last two weeks Ryan Hardy has been a busy man,” the woman said. “He’s killed three of my men, bugged the phones of two of my suppliers, and blown the cover on my absolute favorite summer house at the Cape. Many people are very unhappy with him. So it sounds like I know a _lot_ more about what he’s doing than you do.”

“And who do you think’s been helping him this whole time,” Mike asked. “Do you really think one man could do all that alone, in two weeks? We might not be with him every day, but we have open lines of communication. So I’ll say it again. You’l never find him, without our help. Let us go.”The woman shrugged. “Or I use you as bait.”

Max shook her head, thinking fast, “Won’t work. He’ll never come near you if he smells a trap. But if we’re missing and then we suddenly show up - he’s going to assume the worst is over and he’ll come see if we’re ok.” Max almost smiled as Zhanna’s brow furrowed for a moment. The supermodel was having difficulty keeping up. But this new woman was whip smart. “Or he’ll smell a trap, wondering why I let you go.”

“Oh no.” Max did smile this time. “We escape. And it has to look good.”

Zhanna made a face and leaned into Vadim’s shoulder. “But I wanted to keep them. They’re so pretty, Eliza. Just a little while longer?”

“You won’t return them in one piece. I’ve seen your play room,” the woman — Eliza — snapped back. She took an impatient breath, as though faced with a pesky but insignificant decision. “Fine. We do this. And when Ryan comes for you, he’s ours. You won’t even get the chance to warn him.”

“We’ll see about that,” Mike muttered.

Eliza snapped her fingers, and nothing happened. Until Max looked to Mike and noticed the red dot on his chest. “Down!” She yelled, but a soft snickt preceded her words by a millisecond. When the first dart hit, Max thought this wouldn’t be so bad. But then the second dart thudded into her chest and she fell.

 

***

 

“Your blood alcohol content was through the roof!” Assistant Director McAllen yelled, pointing a finger for good measure. “Witnesses saw you - both of you, not just Weston, stumbling down the sidewalk, flashing your badges to any tourist who stopped to help. Hardy, you dropped your gun into a storm drain! You tell me: how does this look to the public?”

Mike grimaced at the loud words. Next to him, Max put a hand to her head, clearly trying to pass it off as nonchalant. But if her headache was anything as bad as his had been since they’d woken up in an interrogation room a few hours ago, he knew she was probably trying to put that jackhammer back in place.

“Sir,” Mike attempted. His voice sounded like gravel covered in shit. “We told you —”

“That you were kidnapped, forced to run through a halloween horror house and fight off men in tuxedos? Yeah, you told me. Explains all those weird injuries, but makes no damn sense otherwise.”

“It’s the truth, sir,” Max said. “Stranger things have happened to us. You’ve read the files. When Ryan — ”

“Ryan Hardy is dead. And now I’ve got you.” McAllen clenched his jaw, watching them. “You two are the most difficult agents I’ve ever supervised. And this isn’t over. I can only cover this up with the local news for so long.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Mike said. “Get proof to back up our story.”

“And you’re not using any departmental resources until we’re truly out of the clear with your little stunt.”

“Understood, sir.” Max nodded once, then winced.

The assistant director closed the file on his desk and shoved it away from him. “Get to the infirmary. Make up something convincing about why you two look like hell.”

“Yes sir,” Mike stood with a grunt, then helped Max up. The burning pain in his chest and kidneys hadn’t gone away, but his other pains had flared so strongly to life that nothing really stood out. It was almost soothing.

They limped from the assistant director’s office, down a long glass hallway. Agents at open desks or standing hunched over a cellphone stopped to watch them pass.

“How far do you think this goes?” Max asked, watching the other agents a little too closely.

“Deep. There’s gotta be somebody here in Eliza’s pocket.”

“And Ryan?”

Mike shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I think…” Max took a breath. “I think he’s alive. It doesn’t make sense, but otherwise what explains the idle rich’s obsession with him? They can pay for the best intel, Mike. They would know.”

“Maybe.” Mike stopped once they passed the desks, resting his shoulders and head against the solid wall for a moment. “I just can’t mourn him again. If he’s not… dead. I want it so much, but I don’t know if I can deal with more heartbreak, if it’s not true.”

“There’s a lot of heartbreak. We learn to deal with it,” Max attempted a shrug.

Mike didn’t want to say this, here of all places, but yet he did. “Like you’ve learned to deal with it? By obsessing over my safety, and pulling away to lessen the pain in case something happens?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Max retorted.

“Then come spend the night. Move in, maybe. Let’s be close again.” Hell, if Eliza and the idle rich were out there gunning for them, and if Ryan Hardy was still alive, then wasn’t it time to put all the cards on the table? Bet big, Weston.

Max blinked against tears. “That’s not it,” she whispered.

“Isn’t it?” He pushed off from the wall and took her in his arms. She felt right; warm and familiar and so strong. “I love you, Max Hardy.”

She gulped against his shoulder. “I love you too, Mike Weston. And I would love to spend the night with you.”

He smiled into her hair and held her tighter, ignoring the pain. “Sounds great.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
